Once upon a time (and don’t get your hopes up, it’s not one of those stories today) there was a puppy. A Puppy with No Name. Not like he was the Clint Eastwood of puppies where he roamed the Old West righting wrongs and saving towns or anything, but he was a puppy that no one owned yet, so he had no name. Until that fateful day we showed up at the breeder’s place.
“We’ll take that one!” we said. Only we didn’t say that at all. The other people there getting a dog pretty much said that. (They wanted a Westie, not a Cairn. Suckers!) They showed up, saw the puppy the breeder had, paid for it and left. It took them about 10 minutes.
We showed up, saw the puppies the breeder had, played with all three of them for a while, narrowed our choice down to two, wanted to see the mother dog, wanted to see a couple more dogs from the next litter, hemmed and hawed a little, then picked out the puppy we wanted, told the two loser puppies it wasn’t them it was us (it was them), paid the breeder and split. It all took an hour and a half.
Now we had to think of a good name for our new puppy. We already had a name picked out, but it was totally wrong for our puppy. It was a girl name since, so far, we’ve always gotten girl dogs. (The next litter had two girl dogs, so we could have used that name, but we’d have to wait three weeks and that was entirely too long.) Our puppy was a boy dog, so he definitely wasn’t a “Maisy”. As it turned out, he’s a “Brody”. Brody MacDuff DeDay. It’s a name with flow, innit? The perfect name for a little reddish-wheatenish-creamish little baby Cairn Terrier. (No pictures yet. Maybe later this week. We’ll see.)
Well, a dog this good, this fine, this super-cute (He’s so cute even the cat has to play with him. Even though he keeps putting the little puppy chomp on the cat and she’s not crazy about those little needle sharp puppy teeth.), not really all that bright, he needs a special toy. So I went searching for that toy.
My quest took me to Darkest Africa. Since I couldn’t see anything with it being so dark, I figured I’d pitch my tent and wait for daylight. This wasn’t such a good idea since it was too dark to see where the tent got pitched, and the bugs were really bad. I should have just set up the tent instead of throwing it around.
The next day I saw I wasn’t in Africa at all. At least not the regular Africa. I was in some sort of Alternate Reality Africa. The Africa that was made out of the fake sheepskin and had a squeaker inside. This really worked to my favor since this particular Africa had little alligators made out of fake sheepskin and they had squeakers inside too. So instead of getting eaten by Wildebeests or Gnus or something which would have happened in Regular Africa (I’m sure), I grabbed a fake sheepskin alligator with a squeaker and Brody just loves it.
Squeaka, squeaka, squeak! goes the alligator. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeaka, squeaka, squeaka, squeaka, squeaka, squeak! Until I can’t take it anymore and have to take Mr. Chompy away from the little guy and make him play with his chew bone. No squeaker in there! Nuh-uh! It’s a much better toy, now that I think about it.
(I’m not even going to tell you about the Unusual Incident in the Nighttime. It’s not pretty, you don’t want to know, and it’s all over and done with now anyway so why dwell on the past?)